Johnny Walker's Blues
by SYuuri
Summary: In the aftermath of the explosion, Sam finds himself 200 miles away from home. Post One Wrong Move. xX Oneshot Xx


**Johnny Walker's Blues**

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own Flashpoint. <strong>

**Summary: In the aftermath of the explosion, Sam finds himself 200 miles away from home. Post One Wrong Move. **

**:: I know that I said no more Flashpoint stories, but this idea had been bugging me and since _Shiggity_ would be celebrating her birthday very soon, I figured this could be an angsty present for her. Much thanks to my other friend who (gasps) loves angst too, _Tinkerpanda_, cos she has been helping me with her bottomless knowledge. This is for both of you, angst lovers, from me, not really an angst lover, which is why I hope I do this right.**

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><p>"I <em>fucked<em> up."

His words seemed to be swallowed by the wind. It had picked up ever since he got off the train and when he made a tipsy beeline to The Brewer's Retail, he half-wished he hadn't been so reckless and left his jacket on his seat. That's what half a dozen of beers would do to you. The lady sitting across him had simply shot him a pointed, disgusted look before her face vanishing behind the Toronto Sun. Bless her, would she have believed him if he said that he was a police officer?

Probably not.

"I messed up today." His voice was raw and his throat hurt when he spoke. He would fix that. Sam slowly crouched down, supporting his weight on his knees; square shoulders slumped visibly.

It must have rained in Ottawa because everything was damp, the asphalt turned a darker shade of grey and the air was thick and heavy with humidity. As soon as his knees touched the ground, they sank down, the earthy materials soiling his jeans. The dark color of his pants was stark in contrast to the rich green grass.

It took several failed attempts to unscrew his Crown Royal. The store had the nerve not to stock his usual Johnny Walker, but this would do. He finally managed to have it opened and took a long swig. Nothing felt better than when the liquor danced through his dry mouth and glazed across his throat.

"I should have been able to do something- _anything_," he closed his eyes and they snapped open again almost immediately. Hiding behind his eyelids was futile; the dark only reinforced the visual he desperately wanted to forget. And the sound, they're still echoing in his ears, in tandem with the headache slowly brewing. His hair was tousled from running his fingers through it once too many times and when he grazed his jaws, little pinpricks met his calloused hand.

_It_ should have been a blur by now, or maybe he's just not trying hard enough.

Sam took another lengthy sip. _Damnit,_ should have gotten a few more bottles. This thing was a joke. Something that Natalie would enjoy. Perhaps Jules too.

Would Lew have liked it? Less-lethal Lew. Sam didn't know; they had never been close.

Now there would be no way for him to find out. He supposed Spike would have the answers, or maybe Jules? But they weren't really in the best talking term, were they? She hated his guts. He gave her everything and she threw it away and treated him like he was the bad guy.

Jules couldn't stand the sight of him, his father thought he was an embarrassment, Matt… well, he's probably flipping him the finger from wherever he was right now. Didn't take a genius to conclude that there must be something wrong with him to earn such strong sentiments.

"Do you hate me too?" He asked, for the first time looking at the gravestone; really looking instead of sparing it the briefest of glance.

_Our Loving Daughter  
><em>_Victoria Jane Braddock  
><em>_1982 – 1988_

If only he had paid closer attention, she probably would have been here today. But where would _he_ be? Would his father think more of him if his beloved daughter were still alive? Would he still have decided to join the army if he hadn't wanted to get away from his father seething, silent temper for having let Tory die in the car accident? Would Matt still be alive if he didn't go to Kandahar?

Maybe, maybe, _maybe_.

But it was his fault that Tory wasn't here. He had looked away. He hadn't kept his eyes on her as he had promised his mother. His father had every right in the world to loathe him, because God knew just how much Sam hated himself sometimes- well, to be perfectly honest, most of the time.

"I should have been able to do something," he repeated slowly. He didn't even bring any flowers. What an exemplary brother he was. "So much for being an ex-military cop, huh. I saw people get killed in landmine explosions for years. _I __should __have __been __able __to __do __some thing_."

The team was probably wondering about his whereabouts. Their teammate just got blown up and Sam was taking a stroll in the park. Lew had been taken from them so savagely and Sam was too arrogant to grieve.

Sam figured they were mourning together, because that's what friends and teammates do, right? Family? Dealing with hardships as one, hoping that their solid friendship could somehow help ease the pain.

They were just fooling themselves.

When Tory was dead, his father had gone into a catatonic state and shut everyone out. Ma had been too busy coddling Natalie when she's not reassuring him that Tory was in a better, more beautiful place, and Karen had immediately returned to her school just two days after the funeral.

The one big group hug rule simply didn't apply to him. No Lifetime moments for Sam Braddock.

Sam silently wondered if here was where he would end up when his number was finally called. So his old man was influential enough to score a lot in Beechwood, big deal. His constant inability to keep his family intact wouldn't let him rest in peace.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring flowers, I knew you loved them." Another failure. He rubbed his tired eyes with his knuckles; the headache pounded steadily at his temple now. There hadn't been a drop of tears. There should be, but his eyes were dry, bloodshot as they were. "I don't even know why I came, but I should have visited more." He just _needed_ to get away, from everything and everyone. It didn't help to fill the void, but it made it feel less real. "I'm sorry."

He sipped his bottle; it was half empty now and he was still nowhere in the condition he had hoped he would have reached by now. It shouldn't be too hard, his state of mind was nothing but embracing him to get three sheets to the wind. He was waiting to slip into that spiraling oblivion where anything seemed to cease to matter.

He couldn't even get himself decently drunk. _What __the __fuck __is __wrong __with __you,__Sam_?

The cemetery was deserted. It was nearly sundown and the gate would close soon. Maybe he could visit his parents. In spite of his alcohol level, his mom would be ecstatic to see him, and his father… well, that's an entirely different matter.

His eyes followed the Art Nouveau floral arrangements ornamented the gravestone, delicately crafted under the order of General Bad-Ass. The small sculpture of the infant angel seemed to call out to him, silently scrutinizing and judging him. Sam felt his chest constrict tightly.

"Forgive me?"

It was quiet, save for the sound of the wind ruffling the trees and the cooing of some birds afar. Sam hiccupped and thumped his chest with his fist. He surely didn't expect anybody to answer him.

It was when he realized that his phone was vibrating against his leg. After obstinately ringing for a few more seconds, Sam set the bottle down. He wasn't really all that surprised to see a fair number of missed calls and unread text messages. The monitor flickered, displaying the name of the person he had been dreading.

Should he pick up? No, he shouldn't.

"'_lo,_" Sam heard himself answering. He must have been drunk, after all. He thought he was slurring. "Jules."

He heard an intake of breath and Jules was _shouting_ at him in full force,_ "__God, __Sam, __where __the _hell _are __you? __We__'__ve __been __calling __you __for __hours __and __Wordy __has __even __checked __your __place, __but __you__'__re __not __there. __Where __are __you __now?__" _

Her voice was coarse and husky, like she had been crying. Hearing her yelling at him gave him a mild comfort. "Jules,"

"_Sam? Are you okay? You sound-"_

"I'm fine." His sister. His bestfriend. His father. His sweetheart. And now his teammate. Would they ever stop leaving?

"_You __don__'__t __sound __fine, __Sam, __you__'__re __not __fine. __We __all __aren__'__t __fine_. _Lew__… __Lew __died, __okay? __Everything__'__s __not __fine, __it __shouldn__'__t __be __fine __because __Lew __is __dead!__" _

She was on the brink of losing it once again and Sam wondered if Jules thought saying it over and over again would magically make it untrue. The regrets, disbelief, sorrow, wistful hope… she reminded him of her mother after Tory's gone to chase butterflies in heaven. "I know, Jules, I know."

"_Where __are __you?__" _she asked, her breathing was ragged_.__ "__We__'__re __at __the __Goose __now. __Why __don__'__t __you __come? __The __team __needs __to __be __together, __Sam, __now __more __than __ever. __I __need __you __here.__" _

Sam closed his eyes, feeling tears forming behind his lids at last. Maybe it's time for him to stop running.

He shifted and knocked over his Royal Crown, spilling what's left inside and releasing the heavy chain anchoring his heart.

Maybe it's time for him to be saved.

"Jules, I'm in…"

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><p><strong>I hope I wasn't too mean to Sam D:<strong>

**I must have been staring at my monitor for hours before finally managed to start writing something. Feedbacks are loved, because since it's a oneshot, I won't know if you stick around till the end or not. I hope you do though. Cheers. **


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